


Santa Claus

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bickering, Established Relationship, Kid Fic, M/M, Santa Claus - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 17:31:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5506610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A little Christmas gift for my readers!</p>
<p>E/R, Modern AU, established relationship. Technically a companion to <a href="http://kjack89.tumblr.com/post/54890243817/july-prompt-a-thon-prompt-7-grantaire-painting-with">the</a> <a href="http://kjack89.tumblr.com/post/87252817368/bedtime-story">other</a> <a href="http://kjack89.tumblr.com/post/89421960722/happy-fathers-day">fics</a> I’ve written involving Enjolras and Grantaire’s son Max, but none need to be read to enjoy this.</p>
<p>Usual disclaimer applies as always. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!</p>
    </blockquote>





	Santa Claus

**Author's Note:**

> A little Christmas gift for my readers!
> 
> E/R, Modern AU, established relationship. Technically a companion to [the](http://kjack89.tumblr.com/post/54890243817/july-prompt-a-thon-prompt-7-grantaire-painting-with) [other](http://kjack89.tumblr.com/post/87252817368/bedtime-story) [fics](http://kjack89.tumblr.com/post/89421960722/happy-fathers-day) I’ve written involving Enjolras and Grantaire’s son Max, but none need to be read to enjoy this.
> 
> Usual disclaimer applies as always. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

At the end of the day, it was Bossuet’s fault -- so many things were, if only because the poor man always seemed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was hanging over the side of Max’s crib, tickling his sides and grinning as the baby giggled in response, and looked up to ask Enjolras and Grantaire, innocently enough, “Which one of you is going to be Santa Claus?” **  
**

Grantaire laughed, but Enjolras did not seem amused, his lips pursing, and Grantaire’s smile was quickly replaced by a scowl. “Please don’t tell me Santa Claus is going to be the sticking point in how we raise our child.”

He was clearly joking, but Enjolras did not smile, and Bossuet straightened, glancing between Enjolras and Grantaire and offering a quickly muttered, “Right, so I’m just going to, uh, go…” before fleeing as quickly as possible, leaving Enjolras and Grantaire on either side of their son’s crib, glaring at each other.

“Santa Claus can be a formative part of a young child’s critical thinking skills, working out the mystery of just who could be the big man in red,” Grantaire said mildly as he reached down to rub Max’s stomach. “Please don’t tell me that you want to take that away from him just because you don’t approve of the whole Santa Claus myth.”

Enjolras’s scowl deepened. “Santa Claus,” he said, drawing the syllables out with more scorn than Grantaire thought was possible for the jolly symbol of Christmas, “represents almost everything wrong with our society, and I won’t raise our son to believe in that.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Santa Claus is a harmless myth that makes children excited every December and even inspires them to not act like assholes for half a second. Raising our son to believe in Santa is as realistic as raising our son to believe he can be a princess which he wants to, which I know you approve of.”

Instead of smiling at the joke they had shared all through the long adoption process, that no matter what gender their child was, they would raise him or her or whatever gender neutral pronoun was preferred to believe they could be a princess, Enjolras merely shook his head. “If he asks me if Santa Claus is real, I won’t lie to our son.”

Grantaire stared at him. “It’s not like I’m asking you to perpetrate a massive fraud against a minor,” he said slowly. “I’m asking you to keep the spirit of Christmas alive in our kid until he’s old enough to understand that Christmas spirit is about more than just, you know, presents and a fat man in a red suit.”

Enjolras snorted. “Christmas spirit?” he said dismissively. “You really think that’s what this is about?”

Grantaire crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I _know_ that’s what this is about,” he said evenly. “Or at least, I know that’s what this is about for me. What I don’t know is why you refuse to play along, at least for a few years. And don’t tell me this is some kind of protest against the religious and capitalist roots of Christmas.” Enjolras’s lips tightened, and Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Are you _fucking_ kidding me? I’m not asking you to buy the kid a zillion presents and sing ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful’ or some shit. I’m just asking you to allow me to take Max to see Santa at the mall and write ‘From: Santa’ on some of the gifts he gets.”

“Fine,” Enjolras acquiesced, after a long moment, as Max blew spit bubbles up at them. “But I still won’t lie to him. If he asks me, I don’t care how old he is, I’m telling him the truth.”

“Fine,” Grantaire said as well, just as snippily, and they both looked down at their son before Grantaire abruptly asked, “Want to go make out?”

Enjolras laughed, and the tense mood dissipated, at least for the moment.

But it reappeared every year, right around Thanksgiving, when Grantaire would start hauling out the old Christmas decorations he had stolen from his mother, and when Enjolras would scowl and sulk in his office until Grantaire was done decorating.

Christmas became Grantaire and Max’s thing that they shared, and Enjolras despaired when it was clear that his kid was just as into Christmas as most other children seemed to be. “Look what Santa gave me!” he would tell Enjolras, showing off his new toys, while Enjolras silently seethed.

And one year, Max flew through the house after visiting Santa to present Enjolras with a book and to tell him, beaming, “I got you this because Dad says giving you materialistic things will cheer you up!”

Grantaire dissolved into silent laughter as Enjolras held up the book -- “Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus” he intoned dryly, staring at Grantaire like he was trying to decide how best to kill him.

Later that night, as they cuddled in bed, Grantaire kissed Enjolras’s cheek and called him, “Grinch.”

Enjolras just gave him the finger.

But like with the Whos down in Whoville, Christmas just seemed to keep coming, no matter what Enjolras said or did or didn’t say and didn’t do.

Until one day, when Max turned 8.

He came home from school one day in December, his shoulders slumped, his expression miserable, and he went straight into his room without talking to Grantaire, not emerging until dinner time, shortly after Enjolras came home. “What’s wrong, squirt?” Grantaire asked, concerned.

Max took a deep breath and looked up at Grantaire. “Do you believe in Santa Claus?” he asked, his voice small.

Grantaire looked up from Max, locking eyes with Enjolras, something determined in his face. “Why don’t you ask your father,” he said evenly.

Max turned to Enjolras, his expression concerned, his eyes wide, and Enjolras took a deep breath before kneeling down in front of Max. “Well, Daddy?” Max demanded, his voice higher-pitched than usual. “Do you believe in Santa Claus?”

“Yes I do,” Enjolras said, honesty ringing through his voice, and Grantaire started, his eyes as wide as their son’s as Enjolras continued, “I believe that Santa Claus is more than just a jolly man in a red suit, and more than just the presents you get every year. People like to say that Santa is about Christmas spirit, and that we give each other gifts like Santa would because we have Christmas spirit, and that as long as we have that Christmas spirit, Santa will always be real. What do you think of that?”

Scrunching up his face the way he did when confronted with a particularly difficult question, Max thought for a moment before saying slowly, “So Santa isn’t a man but is really all of us giving gifts?”

Enjolras laughed lightly and reached out to ruffle Max’s hair. “That’s a really good way of putting it,” he said, and he slowly looked up at Grantaire as he continued, “But it’s more than that, too. Because believing in Santa means believing that there is light, and hope, and just plain good inside of people. And that no matter what happens, no matter what darkness seems to come into the world, that good will still be there.” Grantaire’s eyes filled with tears and Enjolras smiled at him before looking back at Max, who still looked serious. “So, yeah, Max, I do believe in Santa. And so does your dad. We believe in light, and hope, and good, and love. And we always will.”

Max nodded slowly before asking, “Does this mean I’m not getting the Star Wars toy I asked Santa for this year?”

Enjolras and Grantaire both laughed, and Grantaire leaned over to kiss the top of Max’s head. “I’m not going to spoil that surprise for you, squirt. You’ll just have to wait and see. Now go wash your hands before dinner.”

As Max bounded away, Enjolras slowly straightened, smiling at Grantaire, who looked torn between exasperation and adoration. “So after all these years, you’re the one who believes in Santa Claus,” Grantaire said accusingly before pulling Enjolras in to kiss him.

“What can I say, you’ve made a believer out of me,” Enjolras murmured, kissing him back.

Grantaire looked affronted. “Me? Perish the thought. I am the resident cynic, after all.”

Enjolras shook his head, pulling back slightly, suddenly serious. “But you were never a cynic about this. You wanted to give our kid something special, and you did. I’m sorry that I couldn’t see that before.”

Shaking his head as well, Grantaire kissed him firmly before telling him, “But you’ve given him something just as special, and that’s all that matters.”

Enjolras pulled him close again and kissed him deeply, Grantaire opening his mouth against his, his hand balling in Enjolras’s shirt. They only broke apart when they heard a small ‘ahem’, and both looked guiltily down at Max, who was watching them patiently. “Are you giving me a baby brother or sister for Christmas?” Max asked. “Because my friend Timmy says that when a mommy and a daddy or a daddy and a daddy start kissing like that, it can lead to a baby.”

Grantaire and Enjolras exchanged glances before Grantaire muttered so that only Enjolras could hear, “Nope, only one life-changing conversation at a time. For right now we stick to the party line -- the stork brings the babies.”

Enjolras just laughed before telling Max, “No, buddy, I’m afraid not. But someday soon you’ll have a new baby brother or sister.”

Max whooped and raced into the kitchen as Grantaire glanced at Enjolras. “Is that right?” he asked, his voice low, a grin spreading across his face.

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, taking Grantaire’s hand and pulling him towards the kitchen. “And this time, I get to be Santa.”


End file.
